


Can't Start A Fire Without A Spark

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is rescued from a Mosh Pit by a handsome stranger. Years later, he meets his rescuer again...</p><p>(Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Start A Fire Without A Spark

**THEN**

The club was packed, hot and smoky, with the occasional whiff of sweat and stale beer.

John drank a few healthy gulps of lager down, then almost cowered as the last, distorted, chords rang out from the stage and the crowd went wild.

It wasn't exactly his sort of music – but it wasn't bad. Loud, a bit heavy-metal, all amps turned up to eleven and longhaired rockers, head banging. But it was fun, a good night out with his friends. Friends he'd currently lost, somewhere in the mass of bodies. He tried to stand on tiptoe, looking out over the mass of people.

He thought he saw one of his friends, so swallowed the last of his drink and threw himself into the crowd. He was drunk, slightly unsteady on his feet, happy to use the bodies around him to stay upright.

Then the comparative quiet was broken by a new frenzied drumbeat, and the crowd went insane. It was obviously a popular song, and John found himself pushed and shoved as the crown began to leap around, shouting and whooping. He knew he was a bit shorter than average – and it really didn't help when surrounding with bouncing, insane rockers, all leather and metal studs and hefty boots. He was hit by elbows and buckles and tried to reach up, protect his face. He was disorientated – had no idea which way to head to get to the edge of the mosh pit he'd become entangled in. It had been a stupid idea, trying to cross the front of the stage, he knew that now. Now it was too late.

His trainers were no match to the Doc Martens around him, and as the crowd surged forward he almost lost his balance, but a strong hand suddenly closed around his bicep, catching him and holding him against a very solid, warm, chest until he managed to get his feet back under himself.

"Thank you!" he shouted, into the din. He barely heard it himself, so was certain his rescuer wouldn't. The hand didn't let go, though. It just loosened slightly, but pulled him along, fighting against the surging, head banging crowd.

John hadn't even seen the man on the other end of the arm, all he knew was that he felt like he was being rescued, and he guessed he was being led to safety.

As they broke free from the crowd he could breathe again, and finally stood up straight, smiling at his saviour.

The man smiled back, and John felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. The smile was wide, teeth white against dark stubble, eyes so dark that in the gloom of the club he couldn't even see the pupils.

"Thank you," he shouted again.

The man's face quirked into a frown, and he nodded his head toward the exit. John was only too happy to nod and follow.

Outside a light rain was falling, meaning the streets were relatively empty. John coughed as he stepped out into the cold air, clearing the smoke from his lungs.

"All right, mate?"

The voice was husky, deep, and those brown eyes were wide in question. John tried to find words, but ended up just nodding, coughing again.

A pack of cigarettes was held out to him, but he shook his head, watching as one was pulled from the box between soft lips and the flare of the lighter lit up the handsome face. Then the man leant against the wall, turned towards John, and blew a long plume of smoke up into the rainy sky.

"Not your scene?" he said, gaze flicking over John, head to toe.

"Um, no, no, not really," John smiled. "Thanks for…well, you know."

He looked at the man in the gloom – dark spiked hair, a glint of metal on one ear. The sleeveless t-shirt looked well worn, and there was a shirt tied around his middle, above ripped blue jeans, the frayed threads hanging loose, revealing tantalising glimpses of flesh, and the obligatory heavy boots.

A contrast between his own trainers, jeans and shirt – plain, boring, safe.

"Going back in?" the man asked.

John looked to the door, just as it opened, emitting a staggering couple, arms wrapped around one another, and a blast of noise and warm air.

"Got to get my jacket," he said, hesitantly. "Think I might…head for home, probably." He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say. But 'Only if you are' sounded a bit…desperate.

"Me too," the man smiled, and held the door open for him.

John was fairly sure that the door would have opened considerably wider, if the man had tried. But he couldn't exactly complain about having to brush past him, chest to chest, close enough to smell the smoke and a slight hint of aftershave or soap of some sort.

"Back here, five minutes?" The voice was so close to his ear he could feel the breath. He shivered, then turned, their faces just a couple of inches apart.

"Yeah," he agreed, his heart hammering in his chest, wondering exactly what he was doing. The slow smile that spread over the other man's face meant he had a fairly good idea.

 

It only took him a few moments to locate his jacket, glance around for his friends – none of whom were in sight – and head back to the door.

He hung around, watching the couples on the edge of the crowd, hands roaming over each other's bodies in the darkness. He tried not to stare at the more outlandish fashion statements – the dyed hair, the body piercings, the thick makeup. Somehow the man he had met fitted in perfectly, whilst being nothing out of the ordinary. Well, apart from being utterly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

John suddenly felt even plainer and more boring.

 

A hand landed on the shoulder of his jacket, a slight jingle of metal reached his ears. Fingers gave a slight squeeze, and he found himself propelled towards the exit.

"Sorry, had to say goodbye to a few people," the man said, digging his hands into his pockets as they stepped outside.

"No, it's fine. I mean, you didn't have to…"

The man shrugged, and John couldn't help but glance at the silver studs on his jacket, the worn creases in the leather making patterns over what was obviously an old painted design. "Was only there because a friend plays with the support act."

John nodded, unsure of what to say. Then he pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it out. "John, by the way," he said.

The man took his hand, palm slightly calloused, and gave a firm shake.

"Lestrade."

John was fairly sure he hadn't heard correctly – his ears were still ringing from the noise in the club. But he couldn't form the sound into any recognisable name.

"Lestrade?" he echoed, sure he'd got it wrong.

The man just nodded.

John realised he was leading the way – instinctively heading for home. And the man was just casually walking beside him, the slight chink and rattle of the buckles and chains an accompanying tune as they moved through the quiet streets.

"So, you're…" he started, before realising he had no idea what to say. He licked his lips nervously as the man glanced at him. Then he felt his hand gripped, and he was pulled down a nearby alleyway.

"What, where are we…?" He could easily have broken the grip, but he didn't, he followed, until they were swallowed by the shadows, rain dripping from the roofs above them.

"Shortcut," Lestrade said, abruptly stopping and turning, making John crash into him.

"Shortcut? But you don't even know where we're…"

And then there was a hand on his face and lips brushing against his – the contrast between soft skin and spiky stubble as he was kissed. He froze for a second, then slid his hands up against Lestrade's stomach, feeling the smooth cotton slide over firm muscles. He opened his mouth slightly, tasting smoke and alcohol as they gently kissed.

"Shortcut because…actions speak louder than words?" Lestrade said, as he pulled back, lips bare millimetres from John's.

John couldn't help but smile, then close the gap, kissing Lestrade back, trying to catalogue every taste and feel.

He heard voices nearby on the main road, and glanced around, then turned to look back into Lestrade's dark eyes. "Come back to mine?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Lestrade leaned in once more, for a final, gentle, kiss, then they both stepped back into the orange glare of the streetlights, and continued to walk.

John felt nerves beginning to build as he approached his flat. His hand shook slightly as he slid the key into the lock downstairs, and he jumped as a hand slid over his bum, giving a gentle squeeze.

As they stepped inside the tiled hallway he turned, his finger on his lips, pointing to the front door of the ground floor flat. The woman who lived there seemed to have it in for John, and hated nothing more than doors slamming late at night.

Lestrade crowded him into the wall, hands finding the hem of John's shirt and pushing up underneath it, cold against his skin.

John gasped slightly, instinctively flinching away slightly, but the hand slid around his waist, pulling him closer, and he found himself being kissed again.

The front door banged shut, forgotten.

It had never taken John so long to get up the stairs and through his own door. But then, he'd never been so distracted, before. Each step of the stairs was punctuated by a kiss - roaming hands, buttons being undone, teeth catching lips, grazing over jaws, gentle huffs of laughter as they shared breaths.

They finally tumbled into John's flat, and there was a dull thud and jangle as Lestrade's jacket hit the wooden floor.

Then a hand reached down and slid over his crotch, and it suddenly occurred to him. This wasn't going to be just a very enjoyable snog, like in a club. He'd invited a total stranger back to his flat. A total, male, stranger. And as gorgeous as this bloke was…he clearly now thought John knew what he was doing. And John didn't quite know how to break it to him that that wasn't the case.

And then he realised he wasn't being kissed any more, just looked at, with dark brown eyes that seemed decidedly worried. And the hand moved away from his groin.

"Sorry," Lestrade said, his voice even more gravelly. "I thought…"

"No. I mean, yes, I…" John reached out, stroking his fingers down Lestrade's chest. "I've just…only gone beyond this stage with…girls, before," he admitted. "But I want to. God, I want to." He pushed Lestrade to the other side of the small hallway, taking control, kissing him again, feeling hands settle gently on his waist.

"Bedroom?" Lestrade asked, between kisses.

John led the way, pulling Lestrade along by his waistband, half-heartedly kicking a t-shirt that was on the floor to the side of the room.

He turned back to Lestrade, who had already dropped his shirt to the floor, and was now pulling his top over his head. He stood, watching, feeling lost as smooth skin with a slight dusting of dark hair was revealed, as Lestrade looked up at him, seeming almost as unsure as he felt.

"Come here," Lestrade said, holding out his hand.

John stepped forward hesitantly, and found himself pulled into a hug, kisses pressed onto his neck, fingers working the buttons of his shirt, pushing the fabric aside.

As the last button came undone the fingers moved to the stud of his jeans, undoing it and tugging on the zip. Lestrade fell to his knees, trailing his lips over John's abdomen, hands tugging down his jeans and boxers, freeing his erection.

He didn't know what to do, standing with his jeans around his thighs, and a completely gorgeous bloke moving ever closer to…sliding his warm, wet, mouth over his cock.

John let out a choked moan, and his hands somehow found Lestrade's shoulders, fingers digging into flesh as he tried to keep his balance.

"Fuck," he moaned, as Lestrade's tongue slid over the tip. It was just like getting sucked off by any girl – until Lestrade shifted, and there was a brief, delicious, friction of stubble against his skin.

He looked down to see his hard flesh slipping between Lestrade's lips, and Lestrade looking up at him, eyes pools of darkness. He slid his hand into Lestrade's hair, feeling the rough spikes, gelled into place, and Lestrade took him deeper, hands sliding around to knead his buttocks as he tried to concentrate on anything other than the sensation which was threatening to push him over the edge way too soon.

He finally pushed Lestrade away, breathing shakily, smiling. "I…sorry, I just…that was…"

Lestrade stood, knees cracking, reaching down to unhook his bootlaces and kick the footwear off, quickly followed by his ripped up jeans.

John staggered back to the bed, pushing his own jeans off as he sat, unable to believe it when Lestrade followed him, bending down for a kiss, and then pushing John back, crawling over him, reaching down to slide his hand over John's spit-slicked erection.

They finally settled, side by side, Lestrade's hand making slow, gentle, teasing movements.

John found the courage to hesitantly mirror the actions, fingers closing around Lestrade's cock, watching as his eyes closed for a moment, mouth open, lips wet from kissing, then leaning in once more and continuing to kiss him, stroking gently, feeling Lestrade's hips jerk slightly as he found sensitive spots.

"I don't know…" he murmured, wanting more, and having no clue how to ask for it – or even what to ask for.

"Lube?" Lestrade said, the word barely more than a breathy rumble.

"Lube? Lube!" John glanced around, uselessly, knowing he didn't have any. "No. Um…no. I…" then a thought struck him. "Hang on."

He clambered over Lestrade, opening the bedroom door and listening for a moment, then scampered down the hallway, pushing open the door of his flatmate's room, pulling the drawer of her bedside table open, sending a quick thank you up to whichever deity might be listening, and running back to his room, a half-used tube of KY in his hand.

He stopped before he reached the bed, taking a moment to gaze down at the beautiful sight in front of him – a naked man, sprawled in his bed, with one fist curled loosely around a rather large erection.

"Um," he said. Then held up the tube. "Flatmate. Sex toys. You know," he said. "She won't mind. I don't suppose,"

Lestrade's grin grew wider, then he laughed, rolling onto his back, pushing a hand through his hair.

John blushed, then sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a complete idiot. How must he look? Like some desperate kid, clueless and horny and utterly ridiculous.

A hand stroked down his back, and he felt the dip of the mattress as Lestrade moved.

"Sorry," a hand reached around and removed the lube from his grip. "You just looked so…triumphant."

He couldn't help but let a small smile tug at his lips. Lestrade moved again, and kisses were pressed on the back of his neck, along his shoulder. He began to turn, seeing that Lestrade was kneeling up, cock jutting out from his body, and then his eyes slid down Lestrade's arm, to where it disappeared behind him, as he reached around…John's heart hammered in his chest as he realised just what Lestrade was doing. And what it meant.

"Lie…lie down," he said, pushing Lestrade slightly.

Lestrade moved, and John couldn't help but look at the lube-slicked fingers, knowing where they'd been moments before – wondering how on earth this was happening to him.

"You've got condoms, right?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded, kneeling between Lestrade's legs, and reached for the bedside table, shaking some of the foil packets out of the box.

Lestrade grabbed one, sat up and slid the rubber over John's straining cock.

John let out a shaky breath as the fingers stroked over his erection, his hand sliding back over Lestrade's strong shoulders, fingers rubbing up into the short soft hair at the nape of his neck.

Then Lestrade lay back on the bed, dragging John down on top of him, wrapping his legs around John's hips to hold him close.

"Are you…are you sure?" John said, between kisses.

"Certain. Now just…fucking…fuck me," Lestrade said, each breath, each word, punctuated by a roll of his hips.

John knew the basics – knew the theory. It just seemed utterly surreal, putting it all, finally, into practice.

He grabbed the tube of lube and slicked the condom, then steadied himself, sitting back on his heels, as Lestrade rested his calves against his shoulders.

John looked down, then reached out, fingers still slippery with lube, and tentatively slid his fingertips along the crack of Lestrade's arse. He allowed his middle finger to push inside just slightly, feeling the muscle was slightly loosened by Lestrade's actions.

He glanced up to see Lestrade's eyes closed, and added another finger – barely entering Lestrade, just enough to slide inside the first ring of muscle, feel the slight tensing before Lestrade relaxed again.

"Should I…" he began to ask.

Lestrade opened his eyes, reached down to stroke himself.

"Do it – slowly. Go on," Lestrade's voice was low, rough with need.

John nodded, once, looked down, and slid the tip of his cock against Lestrade's body, pushing forward. There was resistance, so he flicked his gaze to Lestrade's face, checking, then pressed a little harder. And suddenly the head of hid dick slid inside the ring of muscle – too fast, making him stop with a jerk, worried.

"Fuck," it was barely a word, just a moan shaped into one, and Lestrade flexed his back slightly, somehow opening himself up for more, his hand wrapping around his cock and stroking, slow, languid, squeezing slightly at the tip. Then fingers reached lower, pulling up on his balls, allowing John to watch as his hard length slid further inside Lestrade's body.

He eased in, pushing, then stopping, pulling back a mere fraction before pressing forward again.

It was tight, smooth, a different pressure from sex with a woman.

He dropped his head forward, running his lips over Lestrade's leg, his hands down over Lestrade's thighs and stomach. Soothing, calming, trying to maintain control.

"Fuck, this is…"

"Come on, do it, fuck me, fuck me," Lestrade said, voice rough and hoarse, and he pulled his knees back, hands wrapped around his own legs.

John fell forward, supporting himself on his arms, sinking deeper into the heat of Lestrade's body.

"Fuck, Jesus fucking Christ," John's hips pushed forward fast, too fast, but he couldn't stop himself. He took a moment, buried deep in Lestrade, controlling his breathing, his movements, then began a steady rhythm, long sliding movements, wishing he could take the sensation and hang onto it forever. He looked down, past Lestrade's long, thick erection, to where his cock slid in and out.

"God," he breathed, shifting very slightly, getting his knees under him, so now when he thrust Lestrade was almost bent in half, and he could get so deep, he could move fast and hard.

He'd never fucked a woman as hard as he fucked Lestrade, he thought of himself as a gentleman, chivalrous, considerate. That's how he'd been brought up. What would his parents think of him now, ploughing into the arse of a man he'd met barely an hour before.

And Lestrade encouraged him on, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down for a bruising kiss, which was half kissing, half just panting in shared air.

He could feel Lestrade's hand between them, moving erratically, and as Lestrade tightened around his cock he thrust and ground his hips, pushing himself up, off Lestrade's chest, tipping his head back and feeling Lestrade's hand speed up.

He could hear Lestrade panting out expletives, then fingers were digging into his hip, urging him on, and he felt the shivers of pleasure building in his groin. Lestrade was panting, the tendons of his neck standing out, his legs wrapping around John, urging him on, as the spurts of semen splashed over his stomach and chest, almost up to his chin.

It was as if Lestrade was purposefully tightening his muscles, and John drove deep into him as his orgasm slammed through him, leaving him with shaking limbs, gasping for breath.

"Fuuuuuck," he panted, pulling out, needing to lie down, but tangled in Lestrade's heavy limbs.

He dropped the condom off the edge of the bed, not caring about the cheap carpet, and managed to escape from between Lestrade's legs, collapsing onto the too-soft mattress. They were both too hot, sweaty, sticky, and Lestrade's hand found his, fingers slipping together, interlinked.

They didn't speak, just each gathered themselves, got their breath back, listened to the sound of the city outside.

At some point Lestrade sat up, clambered from the bed and headed out of the room.

John listened as the pipes gurgled in the bathroom. He waited for Lestrade to return, to re-dress and to leave into the night. He was surprised when he was nudged over, a handful of toilet paper wiped over him roughly, which he took and used, and then Lestrade settled heavily behind him, an arm around his waist.

John smiled to himself, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

In the morning a few things hit him. He wasn't alone. Everything was too bright. He'd shagged a bloke the night before. He had a splitting headache.

He groaned, throwing his arm over his face.

The body behind him made a questioning noise. At some point in the night they had half-pulled the duvet over themselves, in the too-small bed, still tangled together.

"You got coffee?" the deep voice said in his ear.

John groaned again, but nodded.

"Good."

 

Half an hour later John was leaning against the worktop, holding a pint of water and swallowing paracetamol. And wondering why on earth he couldn't remember the name of the man in front of him. He was almost tempted to ask, but he couldn't think of any way of doing it that wouldn't be hideously, excruciatingly, embarrassing. La-something. Or maybe posh, with an apostrophe. L'whatever. It seemed so, so long ago that they were outside the club, in the rain, strangers. So long ago, so far away.

In the end, when La-whoever the fuck he was put down the mug, and smiled his devastating smile, John decided it didn't matter. Next time, he'd ask. Or find a way of finding out.

"So, I'll see you around," the man said.

"Yeah, yeah, that would be great," John smiled, and blushed.

"At the club, maybe?"

John nodded. "Absolutely. Yeah. Brilliant."

And then there was one lingering, sweet, rough, kiss. One last scent of leather and smoke and the slight hint of sex.

 

When John finished his shifts late, he'd sometimes walk back the long way, past the club. He even considered going in a few times. But he knew he wouldn't fit in, he knew there was only a tiny chance of even seeing the bloke.

He knew that even if he did find him, he'd have moved on, found someone new – someone who knew what they were doing, probably.

But he still smiled when he thought of the wide grin, the rough voice, the sure hands, the warm body.

The stuff of dreams.

 

 **NOW**

John shrugged his wet jacket off and headed for a large free table, glancing at the pumps on the bar as he passed.

"Guinness, please, Sherlock," he called back over his shoulder.

"G and T. Double, as you're buying," Sally said, following John.

Sherlock scowled. He disliked betting at the best of times. He disliked it even more when he lost. Especially when he lost because of someone else's utter stupidity. The obvious escape route had been a double bluff and straight out of the front door - where Lestrade had left a paltry two constables on guard. Climbing out of the window and heading over the roof was so painfully mundane.

But the incompetent criminal had tried it, which meant that Lestrade won the bet, and Sherlock was buying the drinks.

Luckily he had had the foresight to lift Lestrade's wallet, ensuring he wouldn't be out of pocket, even if he were out of sorts.

 

The other team members who had joined them for a post-case celebratory drink called out their orders too, and Sherlock began relaying them to the Landlady.

Lestrade was late arriving, having stayed behind to sign off paperwork for another case before joining them, and as he walked in he shook the rain from himself, pushing his hand through his hair, making it stand in soft, unruly, spikes.

John couldn't help but watch as he removed his long coat, giving it a cursory shake, before hanging it up and walking up behind Sherlock and putting in his own drink order, a wicked smile on his face.

There was, occasionally, John mused, something familiar about Lestrade. But then again, Lestrade just had that easy confidence that made you feel as if you'd known him for years when he spoke to you. Must have. Been brilliant for getting recalcitrant witnesses or suspects to spill, John mused.

Lestrade had barely sat down before there were raised voices at the bar. The landlady obviously had some issue with Sherlock. No one at the table looked surprised.

But when a burly man stood up abruptly from his bar stool and advanced upon Sherlock, people moved instinctively. He might have been an annoying bastard, but he was theirs.

"Givin' me lip, tellin' me 'ow to do me fuckin' job, and he ain't got no fuckin' cash to pay for all this now," the Landlady was screeching, as more of what were presumably her regulars, piled into the growing fray.

John was halfway out of his seat before he realised Lestrade hadn't moved. He turned, eyebrow raised in question, to see Lestrade looking skyward, as if appealing to the Gods.

Then he suddenly stood up, striding across the lurid, sticky, carpet and into the battle, John right on his heels.

"Oi, knock it off!" Lestrade yelled, which succeeded in getting approximately half of 'his' team to stop dead.

Unfortunately it didn't have any effect on the 'pub' team.

"Back off!" he bellowed, as he began dragging bodies apart, roughly separating them to each side of the room, hands gripping arms as fist flew, twisting in clothing as he shoved people aside.

It was inevitable, John supposed, that someone would go further. He was trying to corral the police side of the fight into one side of the bar, arms spread wide. Behind him Sally was still jabbing the burly man in the chest, telling him exactly where he could shove his attitude.

No one saw the beer bottle being raised, but everyone heard as it smashed over Lestrade's head, the broken glass raining down to the floor, and Lestrade's string of swear words and one hand went to the injury, the other to steady himself on the bar.

Once he was anchored, certain he wasn't going to fall, he dug in his pocket and pulled out his warrant card.

"Police," he stated, flashing it at the remaining fighters. "Fuck off or I'll have the lot of you arrested, right?"

It seemed none of the drinkers wanted to wait and see if he was bluffing, and a minute later the pub was largely empty, save the slightly stunned group who were pretty evenly split between staring at Lestrade or Sherlock.

"Uh…Sir? Shall I run you down to the hospital?" Sally offered, breaking the silence.

"Police?" The Landlady said, in a small voice. "On the 'ouse, love, then." She gestured at the drinks. "And we don't usually have no trouble in 'ere."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "Just means you're buying next time then. And next time, don't try to steal my sodding wallet."

He removed the empty wallet from Sherlock's grip. Empty because he knew Sherlock too well, and upon making the bet he had removed all of his cash and cards. Sherlock always had been a terrible loser.

"Hey," John put a gentle hand on Lestrade's arm. "At least let me check your head out."

Lestrade pulled his hand away from his scalp and grimaced at the spot of blood. "Bloody hell."

"Come on," John steered Lestrade toward the pub toilets, waving a hand at Sally, who was looking at him questioningly.

Once in the slightly dingy toilet John grabbed some paper towels and held them against Lestrade's head, pulling them away to assess the bleeding every now and then.

"Just bend down a bit," he said, unable to quite see enough of Lestrade's head. "Not too bad. Think you might need a stitch, though."

Lestrade groaned. "You are kidding me."

"'Fraid not. But I could do it - if you wanted. I keep a full kit around, because...well, it's best, with Sherlock."

Lestrade grunted, clearly un-amused.

John let his hands rest gently in Lestrade's hair as he pulled the strands away.

"Yeah, might need something. Let me just check your eyes. Do you feel concussed? Blurred vision? Sick?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Really doesn't hurt much."

"Right." John tilted Lestrade's head slightly and looked into his eyes. His dark brown eyes. And a memory hit him. He pulled back slightly, staring, one hand still on Lestrade's jaw, stubble rough beneath his fingers.

"Lestrade..." he muttered, almost to himself.

"Yeah?"

John blinked. It was all coming back to him. His eyes went from the greying hair - soft spikes, just like all those years ago. The eyes that were such a rich brown and full of emotion. The strong build, and, now he looked, the indents of old piercings in Lestrade's earlobe.

"Lestrade...it's...John," he said, willing the man to remember, terrified he wouldn't.

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade looked him straight in the eye.

"No, no, I mean...John, and you're Lestrade, and...and I knew it began with Le...or La, and..."

Lestrade nodded, not breaking eye contact. "Yeah. I know."

John could have groaned with frustration. "No, no, you don't. I mean, I know you know I'm John, but I'm...we...years ago, there was a club, a band played there, and you were there, leather jacket, ripped jeans, and you and I...we..."

Lestrade reached up, sliding his hand over John's. "Yes. I know. I remember. I've known for...months."

John froze, mouth open.

He gathered himself quickly. "You know? You...why didn't you say? Why didn't you...Christ, that was one of the best nights of my life! You don't know how many times I've thought about it - dreamed about it."

Lestrade finally looked away, as if embarrassed. "I just thought...with you and Sherlock, well, there was no point."

John let out a frustrated noise. "There is no bloody 'me and Sherlock'. Why do people assume..."

Lestrade cut him off with a gentle hand on his chest. "No, I know. I just meant - I assumed you wanted people to think you were together. To warn others off. To warn me off. I know Sherlock well enough to know you and he aren't together. But you do put on a bloody good show of it."

"To wa...are you insane? To warn you off? Why would I...what...I..." he spluttered.

Lestrade shrugged. "Not everyone would be very pleased to end up working with someone they had a one night stand with in their youth."

John's expression finally changed from incredulous to amused. "Shit. I can't believe...after meeting you in a dingy club on a rainy night...I now re-discover you in a dingy pub, on a rainy night."

Lestrade grinned back, boyish and good looking, and so bloody obviously the La-someone John had been searching for.

"To be fair, you actually found me at a dingy murder scene, on a rainy night, really," he grinned.

"And...and now, if I invited you back to mine, would you...?" John asked.

Lestrade nodded. "On condition we do not borrow lube from your flatmate...I could very easily be persuaded."

John let out a bark of a laugh, then leant in, hands sliding over Lestrade's stubbled cheeks, kissing him gently at first, and then more deeply as strong arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

Lestrade broke the kiss first, leaning his forehead against John's. "We should go. I cannot be found ripping the clothes off a doctor in the toilets of a crap pub, after being involved in a brawl. The DCI would have a fit."

John laughed. "Right. Yes. Come on, I'll tell everyone I need to take a look at your head."

Lestrade grinned. "I'll tell 'em I need to take a look at your entire body."

He dropped a quick kiss onto John's lips, slid his fingers into his hair and checked them for smears of blood, then walked back out of the toilets, John holding the door open for him as he went.

 

Once in the main pub Lestrade walked to the table, everyone falling silent as he approached.

"Doc's going to check out my head," Lestrade said. "Rest of you try to behave. And I'll see you all tomorrow."

He shrugged into his wet coat, then grabbed the fresh pint of Guinness that had been waiting for him, and drained an inch of the top, licking the foam from his lips in appreciation. "And you, Sherlock, still owe us all drinks, particularly me, right?"

Sherlock looked morose, but didn't protest. He drained the last of his drink, though, and stood, obviously about to leave with them.

John gave Lestrade a panicked look. Lestrade made a half-shrug in his direction and led the way out, John close behind him.

"What are we going to do?" John hissed.

"Come to mine?" Lestrade suggested.

John grinned and nodded.

Sherlock hailed a cab, so John turned to Lestrade. "Where do you live? I can fetch some kit from the flat, then we can go to yours?"

Lestrade nodded. "Kilburn way, so yeah, fine."

 

The ride in the cab was oddly quiet. John kept his head down, and he could almost feel Sherlock's brain working – he was certain that Sherlock had noticed something, but he knew he'd never ask. He'd just try to work it out, silently, observing them like samples under a microscope.

When they reached Baker Street John looked at Lestrade. "Wait here – I won't be a minute."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why do you need him to wait?"

"Head injury, Sherlock – he shouldn't be alone. I just want to get my bag, in case his scalp needs a stitch in it. I'm sure you'll manage without me for a few hours."

Sherlock gave an unimpressed grunt and let them into the flat. John ran upstairs and grabbed his medical kit, concealing a change of underwear in the bag too, before heading back downstairs. "See you later," he called to Sherlock as he headed back out to the cab.

Lestrade smiled widely as John clambered back into the cab and sat close to him, their thighs pressing together.

The cab wove its way through the wet London streets, finally depositing them outside a fairly new block of flats.

Lestrade paid the driver off and led the way, throwing a smile over his shoulder to John.

"Seriously, I…I thought you'd just decided you didn't want to know," Lestrade admitted. "And I didn't want to make things awkward."

"No, not at all – I mean, I just…I didn't recognise you. Didn't…that sounds awful. Sorry."

Lestrade shrugged. "To be fair, I didn't straight away. I mean, I knew I'd seen you before but…it took me a while. And I had more to go on - your room was full of medical books. There was a picture of a guy in army uniform on your bookshelves – your Dad? It shouldn't have taken me so long to work it out."

"Yeah, that was Dad. I suppose…I suppose I never expected the rocker to have become a policeman, no," he grinned.

"I was a copper then," Lestrade said. "PC, working a beat down in Southwark."

"Seriously?" John let out a laugh. "I would never have guessed."

Lestrade nodded. "Thanks. I think."

He opened the front door to his flat and stood aside, motioning John in.

"Now, seeing as we missed out in the pub, do you want a drink?"

"Just a coffee – and you should lay off the alcohol, after breaking a bottle with your head." John said, seriously.

"Whoa, all right, Doc," Lestrade held his hands up. "Coffee it is."

He headed for the kitchen and John looked around. The flat was nice – clean, slightly sparse. One large sofa, a small dining table, one bookshelf and a TV. A stack of files balanced precariously on the coffee table, along with a couple of magazines and a dirty plate and glass.

As soon as Lestrade brought him coffee John gestured to the sofa. "Sit down. Let me check your head again."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but complied, and after cleaning him up John made a satisfied noise. "Think you'll be fine. No stitch. It's stopped bleeding already. You might get a bit of a scar. But you won't see it." He pushed Lestrade's hair back into its normal state of disorder. "I could glue it, but then you wouldn't be able to wash for five days. So I think you'll be fine."

Lestrade grinned, reached up and dragged John down onto the sofa by his shirtfront.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear, Doc. Now…you'll just have to treat me gently." He kissed John, sliding a hand up inside his shirt.

John straddled Lestrade, leaning down to continue the kiss, undoing Lestrade's shirt buttons slowly, pausing every now and again to stroke the exposed chest, or run his fingers down Lestrade's cheek, which was rough with stubble.

Lestrade slid his hands around to squeeze John's bum, pulling him closer.

John could feel the growing erection in Lestrade's trousers, and tugged the button open, trying to drag the zip down.

"Bed?" Lestrade asked, his lips brushing John's as he spoke.

John nodded, but didn't move until he'd claimed another long, slow kiss. Then they untangled themselves, and Lestrade grinned as he held his trousers up with one hand, looking completely dishevelled, with his shirt undone and untucked, and held out his other to John.

"This way."

John followed him into the bedroom – once again a plain room, with a large double bed and matching chest of drawers. John couldn't help but wonder what Lestrade made of their flat – the piles of clutter and complete lack of any clear surfaces. He discarded the thought and watched as Lestrade slid his shirt and jacket off in one go. He tried to remember the scene all those years before. The jacket discarded before they even made it to the bedroom, the t-shirt soft and worn.

Lestrade looked so at ease with his own nakedness as his trousers hit the floor and he stepped toward John.

"I…I was shot," he said, suddenly needing Lestrade to know he wasn't the same – wasn't the fit, flawless student of years before.

"Yeah, Sherlock said," Lestrade finished unbuttoning John's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. His gaze lingered for a second on the thick scar that sliced down John's shoulder, then he stepped close and kissed him again as he finished removing the shirt and started on John's jeans.

John sighed as Lestrade's lips traced soft kisses over his ear, neck, jaw. He traced his own fingertips up and down Lestrade's back – eyes closed, remembering his small bedroom in the shared house, the awkwardness he had felt, and then the utter, total, pleasure.

He slid his hands down to Lestrade's buttocks and pulled him close, deepening the kiss, taking his time, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. It had been a long time since he'd been this close to anyone, and he savoured every moment.

Lestrade finally pushed John's jeans down over his hips, waiting for him to step out of them before leading him to the bed and lying down, continuing the slow kisses, the hands exploring, stroking, relearning each other's bodies.

"Do you…shall we…" John started, hesitantly. "I mean…what do you want to do?"

Lestrade laughed. "Anything. Everything. Catch up on…Christ, how long ago was it?"

John smiled. "Too long. Twenty years? A lifetime."

Lestrade twisted and reached out to his bedside table, a tub of lube in his hand when he turned back.

"So…start where we left off?" he said, brown eyes wide, questioning.

John felt his cock twitch at the thought of it.

"Yeah," he smiled slowly. "Sounds good."

He twisted the top off the lube and dipped his fingers in. It was slightly thicker than normal, and a little cold. Lestrade grinned and spread his legs wide, letting out a deep groan as Johns hand slid between them.

John smiled. Twenty years and a lot of practice meant he was no longer clueless. He rolled Lestrade onto his back and trapped him, leaning on his chest, still kissing him, fingers drawing circles around Lestrade's hole, occasionally sliding up between his legs and giving his cock a few firm strokes. Lestrade's hips jerked, uncontrolled, as his body chased the sensations.

Lestrade reached down and wrapped his hand around John's own erection, barely moving, just gentle, teasing strokes.

When John finally slid a finger into Lestrade, Lestrade groaned in pleasure, his grip tightening slightly on John.

"Nice?" John asked, shifting to bend down and run his tongue over Lestrade's nipple.

"Mmm," Lestrade shifted his hips, easing the angle for John, allowing him to easily slid an second finger in. "It's been a…while," he said, rolling his hips slightly, fucking himself on John's fingers.

Somehow, John was surprised. Lestrade was still just as handsome as he had been twenty years before. If a little greyer, and a little less toned.

The movement of Lestrade's hand on his cock had almost slowed to a stop, as Lestrade's attention was obviously elsewhere, and John couldn't help but thrust slightly, trying to get some of the sensation back.

"Sorry," Lestrade murmured. Then moved, rolling to his side and dislodging John's fingers. He crawled around, arse in the air, and pushed John's hips to force him to roll onto his back. Then he dipped his head, licking a stripe up John's cock before sliding the tip between his lips.

John's hips bucked, feet sliding on the bedding.

"Fuck." He ran his hand up the inside of Lestrade's thigh, feeling the heavy weight of his cock and balls, before sliding his fingers back into place between Lestrade's cheeks. He held them still for a moment, then slowly began sliding them slightly in and out, in time with Lestrade sucking on his cock. He closed his eyes, using his free hand to rub across his own nipples, lost in the feel of Lestrade's hot mouth taking more and more of him with every bob of his head.

He could feel Lestrade's breath gusting over his spit-slicked balls, and then gasped as Lestrade finally swallowed him down, lips and nose right up tight to his groan.

"Fuuuuuuck." He forgot all about the head injury of earlier and pushed his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Lestrade's neck, trying to control his quivering muscles and not thrust, despite his body straining to do just that.

"Jesus, Lestrade, I've got to…fuck, please," he panted.

Lestrade slowly, torturously, slid far enough off his cock to breathe, then took him in again, swallowing, the muscles of his throat massaging John.

John was sure he wasn't going to be able to stop himself, but just before he went over the edge Lestrade stopped, strong fingers encircling him, a gentle tug on his balls.

"Bastard," John breathed, twisting his fingers inside Lestrade.

Lestrade kissed the tip of John's cock, then moved again, causing John's fingers to slide from him once again. He reached to the drawer and pulled out a foil packet, twisting to roll the condom over John, discarding the packet over the side of the bed. A small dollop of lube on the tip, and he straddled John's hips.

"You…" the sentence melted into a groan as Lestrade sank onto his cock, the tip sliding through the strong ring of muscle.

"Jesus, fuck," Lestrade tipped his head back as John's hands gripped his hips, pushing him down, holding him tight. John brought his knees up, heels digging into the bed, relaxing and then pushing in further.

Lestrade reached out, running his hands over John's nipples. He tucked his feet back under John's legs, forcing himself to relax, to take John's thick cock.

One of John's hands moved and wrapped around his cock, slowly stroking it as he eased more of himself inside Lestrade, biting his bottom lip, trying desperately to stay in control.

Finally he was all the way in, and he paused, breathing deeply, controlling himself.

"Been a while for me, too," he finally said, when he caught Lestrade's gaze.

Lestrade smiled, licked his lips, and moved, rising up slightly, before settling back onto John.

John groaned, but next time Lestrade moved he did too, pulling out slightly, before thrusting back in.

They kept up the motion, slowly rocking together, no rush this time. Just a smooth slide of skin and muscle, building the waves of pleasure slowly, almost torturously.

Until finally Lestrade leant forward, supporting himself on his arms against the bed head, bending down to kiss John, then arching his back slightly, muscles visible under the skin of his shoulders as he braced himself.

"Fuck me, hard," he said, voice rough and low.

John paused for a second, looking into the dark brown eyes. Then he moved his feet, settling them, and gave one long, experimental thrust of his hips, pulling out until he felt the head of his cock just nudging the ring of muscle. Then smoothly thrusting again.

He settled his hands back on Lestrade's hips, fingers playing over bone, grip tightening, and shoved in, hard, skin slapping skin.

Lestrade growled, the sound low in his chest. "Yeah, like that, just like that."

John smiled, pulling Lestrade down onto himself harder, and gave in to his instincts.

He could hear Lestrade's breathing, rough with every hard, fast thrust, as if he was fucking the air out of him.

He could feel the bed rocking as Lestrade struggled to hold himself, and it just made him want it all the more.

Lestrade's weight shifted, the angle changing, somehow becoming tighter, and realised Lestrade was reaching for his own cock, pumping it, gasping for air and release.

He felt Lestrade's orgasm from deep within, the tightening of muscles, the squeeze on his cock, and then the wet splashes across his belly and chest. He pushed himself on, feeling his own release filling the condom, wishing the rubber weren't there, so he could fuck Lestrade's tight arse when it was slick with his own semen.

"Fuck."

Lestrade's panted exclamation brought him back to his senses, and he looked up to where Lestrade was leaning heavily on the bed on one arm, panting for breath, the other hand sliding through the mess on John's abdomen.

John began laughing, unable to stop himself.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he giggled. "I just…fuck, twenty years. Twenty fucking years."

Lestrade slowly moved, releasing John's softening cock, swinging his leg back over before dropping bonelessly onto the bed.

"Yeah." He paused. "Think it's your turn to fetch something to clean us up with. I'll make the coffee in the morning."

John grunted. "S'pose."

"And this time I'll hope you remember my bloody name when we wake up," Lestrade grinned as John pulled the pillow from behind his head and hit him with it.

 

~Fin


End file.
